


first rain

by daxmii



Category: Original Work
Genre: Aliens, Angst, Fluff, Found Family, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Social Anxiety, i honestly just needed a place to organize this, multiple POVs, outcasts
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-05-14
Updated: 2020-05-14
Packaged: 2021-03-03 00:40:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 10
Words: 10,841
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24186040
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/daxmii/pseuds/daxmii
Summary: A collection of drabbles from an original story I'm trying to write. And since I'm writing it out of order and almost entirely in one-shots right now...here we are.Basically, here's the story of a human and an alien who both feel like outcasts and end up becoming friends. Out of order. And in one-shots.
Comments: 2
Kudos: 2





	1. rory // toby trees

**Author's Note:**

> if you're reading: thank you!
> 
> i'm honestly not expecting anyone to read this and just needed a place to keep all my writing.
> 
> enjoy anyhow!

Our childhood home was small, but it had a huge backyard. There was a tiny fenced in area for the dog, but on the other side of the gate there was a whole world to explore, again, and again, and again. Some days it was a fairy sanctuary, some days it was a wild jungle, other days it was just a backyard where Daphne and I could pick the big leaves or the cigars off of the two big Toby trees in the backyard and use them in our homebrew “potions” with mud, grass, and water from the creek down the hill.

Daphne told me sometimes that she hoped Mom wouldn’t have another baby, because there would be too many babies and not enough trees. We just had the two, thick-trunked Tobies in the backyard, standing side-by-side, one for me and one for her. The branches were too high up for either of us to reach and climb on our own, so some days, when we were playing as jungle explorers or fae exploring our magical two-treed forest, she would stand on my shoulders and climb up, or vice versa. We’d wrap our legs around the branch and sit up, marveling in the sunlight barely peeking through the canopy of massive leaves, watching them rustle in the cool breeze. I liked to pick them off and pass them down to her so we could use them as plates for our mud-and-grass stew.

When we were kids, we spend almost all of our time by those trees. Towards the end of our play-pretend phases, we played on the rope swing our dad had hung from one of the sturdier branches.

It all came to an end when I was eight and she was seven. The summer before we moved away—before we even knew we were going to move away; this honestly should have served as a premonition—we’d spend any time we can by those trees. One day, when it was Daphne’s turn to climb up on my shoulders and hoist herself up onto the branch, I lost my balance. I leaned too far to one side while Daphne was pulling herself up, and my knee gave out for a moment—which was enough for me to tumble to the ground, pulling Daphne with me. One thing led to another, we were on the ground, and she started crying because her ankle was bent in an odd direction.

Our parents scolded me for not holding onto her tight enough.

We weren’t allowed to climb in the trees after that.

A couple months later, we learned we were moving, but our parents still never let us play in the trees one last time. My last memory of those trees, aside from the leaf I picked and keep in my old journal, is Daphne’s face, twisted in pain, on the ground after a tumble.

Sometimes I wish I could go back there and be a kid again, before we learned what the world was like, and that you can’t spend your whole life up in a tree. Before my knee gave out and the people on my shoulders fell again, and again, and again.

I was heartbroken to find out that there aren’t any Toby trees in Illinois. I’d at least hoped that I could try again—that I could show Daphne I could get her onto that branch--but there were no Toby trees there. No more big leaves, no more cigars, no more mud-and-rock stew. Spencer didn’t even know what they were—I had to show him the leaf I kept and smiled as I watched his face light up in amazement.

I don’t think Daphne remembers those trees all that well. Of course, she remembers the broken ankle—she had every one of her friends sign her cast. But those trees, the two, beautiful trees, standing in solitude side-by-side together, I don’t think she does remember, or at least the reason I hold them so dearly in my heart.

Does she remember why she fell?

Does she know it’s my fault?

Does she know that since then, I’ve let her fall, again, and again, and again?


	2. cesen // self

Today Rory seems stressed—or, well, more so than usual. He is throwing garments around the room, digging through his storage units for “something nice,” he said. I want to help, but I think it all looks the same.

Not all human garments are the same, though. Most of the humans on the TV wear much more colorful clothing than Rory, and some of them wear things on their necks and wrists and ears that sparkle, and some wear pants that flow behind them when they walk. Some have form-fitting garments, some have loose ones, some are a mix of both. Some don’t even wear garments. Each of their garments are different, each making them look like…themselves. I’m not sure how to explain it. I’m not sure I have a “self.” But every human is different.

What type of garment constitutes as something “nice,” I’m not sure. Do humans have a uniform that I didn’t know about? Is that their “nice”? Rory’s clothes are dark and big, and that’s what he chooses to wear. That’s his self. I guess that isn’t “nice,” but it makes him comfortable, so he wears it.

I used to wonder what it’s like to have that freedom.

He hits me with a balled-up shirt and apologizes profusely before getting back to it. His face is screwed up and wet and the normally peach spots are pink, but every once in a while, when he catches me staring, he flashes a toothy smile at me before going back to tearing through his closet.

Daphne comes in the room after a while, giving me the same smile, before crossing her arms and talking to Rory. I pick out bits and pieces—

“Are you—for the—?”

“Trying to—I can’t find my—”

“It’s tomorrow, Rory. If you’re not—”

“I know, I’m sorry, I didn’t—it was sun day.”

She smiles again, but her face looks different this time. There are no teeth, and her ares aren’t crinkled around the edges. She thanks him for something and wraps her arms around him, which Rory said was called a hug, but he doesn’t hug back. His eyes are wide, and his mouth is a frown. He says, “Sorry,” and Daphne just pulls him closer.

My chest feels tight. It feels like something I shouldn’t be allowed to see, something—illegal. The scars on my wrists and ankles burn for a moment, but I take in my surroundings, the garments scattered around the room, and the two humans in front of me, the white snow outside the window, and I remember I’m still on Earth.

I’m safe.

Daphne takes a couple steps back, her arms falling back to her sides. She looks at me again and smiles, the sadder smile, not the toothy one.

“Wish we could—you to the—Bug,” she says, and then turns to Rory again. “I’ll try to find you something.”

“Thank you.”

“See you, Bug.”

I smile back and say, “Goodbye, Daphne.” She chuckles before stepping out and going upstairs. Rory watches her leave, and once the door clicks, he breathes out heavily and sits down on the edge of his bed.

I want to say something, but my voice gets caught in my throat. I sign, “Are you okay?” with my top set of hands, and he responds with a nod.

He says, “Never liked sun days.”

I looked out the window. “The sun is good,” I say, stepping forward until I’m on the edge of the bed with him. “Isn’t it?”

“Yeah, sun is good,” he says with a laugh. I love the sound of Rory’s laughs—they’re wheezy and odd and unlike any other sound I’ve ever heard before. “Sunday. One word. It’s the first day of the—"

He says a word I don’t understand, but I don’t ask him to clarify. Somehow it seems like the wrong time. I look at the garments on the floor, now coated in the fur of his cat. I ask, “What are you looking for?”

It must have come out wrong, because Rory says, “You need a ‘for’ at the end of that. It’s ‘what are you looking _for’_.”

“Oh. Okay. What are you looking _for?_ ”

“Something for Daphne’s—” Another word I don’t understand. “She wants me to look nice, but…”

“Nice?”

“Kind of like your uniform,” he says, looking down at his hands. He moves his fingers rhythmically, almost like he’s knitting but without the needles or the yarn. “For some things, we have to dress up more…nice. I haven’t in a long time. Don’t think I have—nice.”

“For war?”

“No. It… it feels like it, but no.”

“What is it?”

“You gotta have an ‘it’ at the end.”

“Answer.”

He brings his head up finally, looking at me with wide eyes. “What?”

“You aren’t answering me.”

“Damn. You’re—than I thought, Bug,” he says, putting his hand on my head. ‘Bug’—I still don’t understand why he calls me that. I don’t think he knows it means ‘help’ in my language—or maybe he does?

I’ve tried to tell him my name is Cesen before, but I suppose the language barrier was too wide for him to understand. When I could finally say “My name is Cesen” in English, Rory said the name Bug had already stuck. I suppose it isn’t all bad—this way I can separate my Earth self and my Hmyzu self. When I can get back to Hmyzu, I’ll be Cesen again, and I’ll be able to put Bug behind me.

Or…I suppose not. I can’t go back to Hmyzu. I’m stuck here, on Earth, with Rory. Am I even stuck? I don’t really know.

Is Bug my...self? My real self?

In Hmyzu, our selves are our assignments. I was assigned a soldier when I was created, and so that was who I was supposed to be from the beginning until the end. We didn’t have individual selves—we had our Codes, our duties, and our uniforms, and we were expected to follow them precisely—our “selves” were shared with every other Hmyzic that shared our title. We didn’t have selves. We were… _machines,_ computers, meant to do nothing but follow orders. Thinking for ourselves was illegal, but I spent countless training sessions wondering why, if we weren’t allowed to have individual thoughts, _why_ we could think. I _could_ think for myself—I could have a self—I just wasn’t allowed.

That’s what’s so amazing about Earth, I think. Not only does everyone have a self…they’re encouraged to. Rory and Daphne, they look similar, but still they are so different. Rory is quiet and likes to knit. Daphne is loud and doesn’t like to knit. Is that what makes them themselves? And further—do they get to decide? How are their selves created? To just…be able to wake up one day and choose who to be…

I don’t know how to have a self. I was never taught. What garments do I like? What do I like to do? Do I like knitting?

Bug—Help. Maybe that is my self.

Maybe instead of following my Commanders’ orders, my purpose is to help. Maybe I’m meant to help Rory and Daphne and all the humans I know. Maybe I can go back to Hmyzu and help Kef and Venn and Apona escape. I think that’s my purpose. That’s my self. I’m on Earth, so now I get to decide. I’m Bug.

I’m Bug.

Rory looks back down. I scoot closer to him and rest my head on his shoulder, something I’ve seen some humans do to each other on the TV. He laughs again, so I keep my head there until he moves to get up.

“I wish I didn’t have to—myself for Daphne sometimes,” he mutters.

I ask him what the word means. He explains that it’s the word for change.

“Why do you need to change for her?”

“It’s why _do_ you—”

“Rory.”

His face shifts to something unreadable. Human expressions—they’re strange to me, and I’m still seeing new ones every day.

“Humans…we’re….” he starts slow, opening and closing his mouth a few times before finally finding the words, “we’re not supposed to be like me.”

“What do you mean?”

“I…don’t know how to—it to you, I…” wringing his hands, he takes a deep breath and begins again. “Humans are supposed to talk to other humans. Humans are supposed to…to—the house. They’re not supposed to have panic attacks _because_ they’re –ing the house. So… I have to change.”

“I understand.”

“Oh?” he asks, his voice small and wet, looking back at me with furrowed brows and unshed tears in his eyes. “You do?”

“Hmyzics aren’t supposed to feel. We’re not supposed to have friends. We’re… really not supposed to be anything other than what we were assigned. I am… everything other than what I was assigned,” I say, watching Rory’s expression change. “I feel, and I…have friends. Like you.”

“I won’t—out the things wrong with that sentence.”

“Rory!”

"Yeah, yeah,” he says, laughing again. “You, uh… Thank you, Bug. It’s good to know someone else gets it.”

I think I get it now. Maybe everyone on Earth has a self, but…I suppose that doesn’t mean that everyone knows what it is. Or maybe they’re like me, and they have the selves that they’re expected to be, but not everyone is able to follow that expectation—like Rory. But they have that liberty—the liberty to mess up, to struggle, and to be not exactly what you’re expected to be without breaking any laws. The liberty to _have_ a self, even if it doesn’t fit the mold.

How different my life would have been if Hmyzu were like Earth.

“You’re welcome.”

He says something else I don’t understand, whether it’s because he said a lot of complicated words or because he slurred all of them together, I can’t tell. I tilt my head and frown at him. He smiles at me, toothy and wide, and starts picking garments up off the floor.


	3. rory // knitting

I pull the old plastic bin off the shelf, waving the dust that had settled on it out of my eyes. Holding it up to my face, I can smell the wool—a strange but distinct, familiar smell, almost like dust and mothballs—and feel the calm wash over me.

The needles resting at the bottom clink together when I set the bin down on the bed. They’re cold, the way metal gets cold when it’s left alone, but I don’t mind. I pull out a pair of needles—circular needles, connected by an acrylic loop, and roll them around in my fingers for a moment, relishing the feeling of the smooth aluminum on my rough hands, before setting them back down and looking through the bin again. I sift around the yarn balls of grays and black and white before finding the one I want, still wrapped up in its cardboard packaging—a soft yellow baby velvet yarn skein that Daphne got for me for my birthday.

Sliding the bin back on the shelf, I sit back down on my bed, crossing my legs, and start to unravel the skein.

I make the slip knot, wrapping the yarn around my index and middle finger once, then pulling it up through the second time around. The yarn is soft to the touch, almost like kitten fuzz. The right needle goes through, and I tighten the knot around it, tuck the tail away, and taking the working piece in my left hand, falling into a steady rhythm I’d done so many times before. I loop the yarn around my thumb, scooping the needle through, again, and again, and again, making loose stitches on the now-warm needles, stopping when the stitches loop all the way around the circle.

After the cast-on is done, I join the stitches together, then work on the knit stitch, slipping the second needle through the first loop, making an “X” with the needles; wrapping the working yarn around it; pulling it through; slipping the yarn off the first needle; and pushing the loop down, again, and again, and again. The needles clink, and the body of the soft, yellow sweater starts to grow, bit by bit, hanging off the needles as I work with them, scooping and looping with ease and experienced precision.

I’d missed knitting. I’d almost forgotten the relaxation it brings me, just focusing on knitting, and knitting only, not about the outside or anyone else.

I’m snapped out of my trance when Bug shifts in his sleep beside me, stretching his tiny fingers out before clenching the blanket again, one I’d knitted way back in high school. He looks content, _peaceful,_ even, and I can’t help but smile at the sight of it. Maybe…Maybe I can knit and worry about just _one_ anyone else.


	4. cesen // tug of war

She disappears over the edge of the cliff, and the whole planet goes silent. My head feels like static, my ears ring, and all the while turmoil and fierce combat continues to rage around me. Arrows and bullets whizz past my ringing ears. The anguished faces of Omeri soldiers go slack or open wide for a tormented scream. Ships and cruisers chug on and plummet to their doom. But they’re all soundless as I watch Apona’s ship fly by, enveloped in a plume of smoke. It feels like eons until the thundering whirlwind of noise rushes back to me. Screams. Fighting. Crashing. Wails. Commands.

The voices in my ear come to me next, loud and imperious. They tiny communicator in my ear relays frantic messages to me faster than I can process them, adding to the clamor shrouding my head. It reaches an unbearable fortissimo.

I stumble to the cliff’s edge and dial my senses up to eleven in a desperate search for a navy-blue cruiser. Eyes wide, antennae perked, ears forward, in an attempt to sense everything and anything that could be Apona. A battlefield full of fire and smoke, still bodies, cruelly tangled soldiers dressed in blue or gold, clamoring tanks, and multitudes of ships and cruisers from both sides of the quarrel. They all blend together in a moment, mixing like paint, as tears sting my smoke-bit eyes.

Screams. Fighting. Crashing. Wails. Commands. I hear an anguished shriek to my left, and then a calling of my name pierces through the veil of white noise.

“Cesen!" Commander Yomen’s hoarse voice erupts in the speaker of the communicator. “What do you think you’re doing? Get back in line, soldier!”

My foot moves forward first, and my mouth moves second. “It’s Apona. Her ship just—”

“Are you defying me?”Suddenly, my uniform feels too heavy. It constricts and wraps around my airway, its weight knocking the air out of me, suffocating me. It whispers a mantra in my ear, repeating a code that’s been engraved into the depths of my mind since my first day of academy.

Code #54: Do not allow emotion to get in the way of your mission.

Code #68: Do not allow bias to get in the way of your mission.

Code #27: Do not allow morality to get in the way of your mission.

Code #2: Hmyzic soldiers do not have feelings.

Code #96: Hmyzic soldiers do not have friends.

Code #1: Hmyzic soldiers do not have family.

Hmyzic soldiers do _not_ have family.

Abandoned are those meaning matters the moment we begin our training.

Some soldiers find it easier than others.

The world rushes back to me a second time, making my head pound, joining my uniform and the hot, sticky air in a dogpile on my shoulders. Commander Yomen shouts furiously through the communicator, “Cesen! Are you defying me?”

I felt frozen.

The air is thick with smoke and the wails of Omeri soldiers. The dogpile doesn’t let up—its pressure is both a comfort and crushing soreness in my shoulders. The communicator rumbles and erupts in my ear. Screams. Fighting. Crashing. Wails. Commands.

I am being pulled to two different sides, being tugged and dragged back and forth, my arms jerked in the opposite direction so violently until I fear they’ll come free of their sockets. One side is pulling my backward, back to my Commander, back to my fleet, back to Hmyzu. The other is pulling me towards the cliff’s edge, towards Apona’s cruiser, towards betrayal, towards the unheard of. My uniform continues to shrink and constrict. The war rages on in my ears. I feel a scream building up in my throat.

I recall the profile of a calm Hmyzic trainee, taking in the warmth of a tranquil day. The sun surrounds her body in a golden lining, and she flashes me a fleeting smile.

And I am drug over the edge of the cliff.

My legs move on their own volition, carrying me down the slope of the cliffside and into the open plain. The screams, fighting, crashing, wails, and commands fade into the distance as I race into the unknown, searching for the familiarity of a crashed navy-blue cruiser.

“Apona!” I cry. “Apona, where are you?!”

I’m being shot at, and the horrifying realization crosses my mind that I don’t know if I am dodging Omeri or Hmyzic bullets. I run in a zigzagged line, crouching low and staying on edge. New, disturbing feelings spread through my chest. I can’t help but allow a smile to pull at the edges of my mouth.

I spot a beacon of smoke, and its source is none other than Apona’s cruiser, laying damages on its side. The scream that had been building since the beginning of the war finally makes its way past my teeth, tearing at my throat, and the weight on my shoulders explodes with it, leaving me feeling free and weightless, propelling me forward in a mad dash towards Apona.

A bullet grazes my bicep. Sharp pain snakes up and down my arm, but I do not allow my legs to stop moving. Hot and sticky liquid flows down, pooling underneath my claws and in my palm. I refuse to look down or back. I zigzag farther to the left and right and make my path more random. I hear rough shouting following closely behind, heavy footsteps echoing mine.

I rip the communicator out of my ear and throw it behind me.

Apona’s cruiser smells like hot metal and smoke. Its engines whir silently and occasionally sputter, and I can hear alarms and sirens sounding from inside it. I call out her name once, then twice. She does not respond. When I am upon it, I skitter up the side and kick down hard on the door before realizing it had been unlatched, falling down into the cockpit before a bullet can land in my skull. I push the door closed, latching it to the best of my ability, just in time for soldiers—Omeri or Hmyzic, I don’t know—pound on it and command me to let them in.

Inside the ship, everything not tied down has collected in a heap on the right wall. Some things have broken, including the base of Apona’s pilot chair. The blaring alarms are deafening.

And the sight of Apona, deathly still on the floor, is sobering.

There’s a scream, and I don’t know if it’s mine or the brutish soldiers outside. I kneel down beside her, turning her on her back, revealing a gaping wound on her hip.

“Apona,” I whisper, leaning in close to listen for her breathing. It’s faint, shallow. “Can you hear me? Please, Apona—!”

Her faces scrunches up for a moment, then goes slack.

“Cesen,” she sputters, “Cesen, what are you—?”

She winces and curls on her side, grabbing at the fabric on her hip.

“It’s going to be okay, Apona. It’s okay, just—let me—”

“You shouldn’t be here.”

“Wh—Yeah. Yeah, I know. Just let me—”

“You _shouldn’t_ be here, Cesen.”

Her eyes are intense. She doesn’t allow the pain to cloud them, even though it looks… Bad. It looks bad.

“You’re going to die if you don’t let me help you, Apona.”

“Let me,” she grunts, sitting up and grabbing my face with one hand and pulling me towards her. “Let me. Code #103—”

“I don’t care.”

She looks at me with an expression that looks almost frightened.

Then the door bursts open, and light floods the cockpit. A cacophony of shouts and readying weaponry bursts forth, and before I can even turn, a knee slams into my back. I’m on the ground in a second, coughing and spluttering, flailing my limbs as much as I’m able. My face lands in a small puddle of Apona’s blood. The barrel of a gun is pressed to the back of my neck, the cold metal freezing me in a moment. There is near silence then, the only sounds being my rough breathing and the slow footsteps of Hmyzic soldiers.

“Cesen,” one of them says, calculatedly emotionless and even. A cry bubbles past my lips. I squeeze my eyes shut. The soldier on my back puts more of his weight on me. A pair of boots stop in front of my face.

And with that, something strikes the back of my head, and my vision goes black.


	5. rory // sorry

It was quiet, and the cool fall air wafted in through my open window, blowing the curtains out. I watched them until my eyes became unfocused, wringing my hands in, and out, and in, and out.

There was a knock at the door, and I could hear Spencer’s voice call for me, rough and thick with emotion, very different from their usual soft, gentle inflection. It was distant, likely coming from the front door. I called out, hoping they could hear me through the crack in the window, and said, “I’m here.”

Not that much later, they stormed into my room, rage present in their blue eyes. The edge of their lip was curled up, and their arms crossed across their chest.

I blinked and looked back at the curtains. “Hey, Spence.”

“Where the hell have you been? I haven’t heard from you in _weeks_ , Rory.”

“Oh. Sorry.”

“What’s wrong with you?” they said, and I could tell they were feigning their anger, but I didn’t let them know that. “Is it something I did?”

I looked down at my hands. No, of course it wasn’t, but—I didn’t have any reasonable explanation. They didn’t deserve—me. Or any of the hurtful things I’d brought into their life since they met me. Flashes of a bloody kid’s face, one seething with anger, one quickly turned soft when they turned to me, hand outstretched to an ungrateful recipient, played through my mind, and I couldn’t help the tears that spill over onto my cheeks.

How was I supposed to tell them that I’m the reason they’re hurting?

“No, it’s—not you, it’s—”

Spencer gave me the same look they gave me all those years ago, the one burying anger underneath knotted brows, but this time there was no blood, just—love. Concern. I felt it choking me. It was concern I don’t deserve.

“If you were hurting, you could have just told me. I would have been willing to keep my distance, you know. If you would have just… _told me,_ Rory,” they said, crossing their arms. “That’s what friends do.”

“Yeah. I know.”

They smiled at me, and I could see the hurt behind it, but of course they didn’t want to show it. “I get it.”

“Get what?”

“Nothing,” they sighed, sitting down on my bed so that we were facing different directions. “I just… I worry about you sometimes.”

“Well, don’t. I don’t need anyone to worry about me.”

I felt them shift, but they didn’t say anything else. The pit in my stomach opened wider, feeling as if a rock were sitting in my abdomen. Words I want to say but can’t stood on the edge of my tongue. Instead, we sat in silence, and I stared at the curtains, watching the wind blow through them.

Spencer, after minutes of nothing, started laughing. “You’ve always been stubborn.”

“Thank you. I think it’s one of my best qualities.”

“Maybe a little too stubborn.”

I smiled, putting my forehead to my knees for a moment before looking back. “Yeah?”

My smile dropped. Spencer looked at me with a blank face, looking more exhausted than I’ve ever seen them. They picked at the black nail polish on their fingers, legs pulled towards their chest. “Yeah.”

“Spence, I’m…”

“I’m going home.”

They got up to leave, pulling their bag further over their shoulder. “Wait, Spencer—”

“I’m tired, Rory. I’ve given you chance upon chance to apologize, but you’ve never once done it. Never, not as long as I can remember. I’m tired of feeling not appreciated.”

“I—” The pit only grew heavier, and I felt my chest ignite with rage. “I have nothing to apologize for! You’re the reason my life is hell anyway!”

Their eyes grew wide and they laughed, short and cynical. “Is that how you really feel?”

Before I could stop myself, I kept going, “Yeah. Yeah! I’m tired of—of—of people always giving me weird looks when I’m around you. Of the stares and the way they laugh. Why can’t you just be _normal_ , for _once_ , Spencer? Why do you think no one talks to you?!”

Spencer stares. “Jesus, Rory.”

“I’m—tired. Of you. Of the way you dress, just—begging for attention all the time. Of you—you talking about _aliens_ and shit all the time, as if the existence of the paranormal will make you any less of a _weirdo_.” The weight of my words didn’t settle in until after I’ve said them, until I’m watching Spencer’s eyes well up with tears.

“Alright.”

“Wait, Spencer, I’m—”

They looked at me expectantly.

“I’m sorry.”

“It’s a little too late for that. See you around, Rory.”

They turned and walked out the door, and I could do nothing but watch it close behind them. I stared out the window and watched them leave on their way out my front door. Their shoulders shook, and every so often they would wipe their eyes. I watched until they turned the corner and disappeared. I watched them until my eyes became unfocused, wringing my hands in, and out, and in, and out.


	6. rory // first rain

The night is silent. Nothing but the sounds of two pairs of bootsteps and the buzzing of neon signs and dim streetlights resounds off the brick walls of the shops lining the block. Chilly winter air bites at my cheeks, but somehow, I can’t bring myself to mind. The darkness of the night and the comfort of the small form walking next to me dulls the fear that the outdoors would usually instill in me. It’s a comfort I haven’t felt in years.

Barely even two weeks ago, I never would have expected to see myself on the other side of my basement door. But now, here I am. Walking in the streets of Chicago at two in the morning with an alien by my side.

Our task is simple: go to the store, buy some fruit for Bug, and then go home. (Preferably with minimal human contact. Not only for my own comfort either—a cheap disguise can’t do very much for a green, four-armed alien.)

The night is silent, and so are we, Bug taking two tiny steps for my every one, my hand resting comfortably in between his shoulder blades.

Wind blows past us, a short yet heavy gust, that lifts the hat right off of Bug’s head and carries it a few feet down the sidewalk. He lets out a startled squeal and throws his arms over his head, and when I pick up the beanie and return it to him, I notice that he is trembling and curling in on himself where he stands.

Pulling the hat down over his antennae and ears, I assure him, “No need to worry, Bug. There’s no one around to see you, see?”

He shakes his head and says a word that sounds like “receipt.”

“What?”

“Receipt!” he exclaims. As he wraps his arms tightly around himself, I realize—he isn’t trembling, he’s shivering. 

“Oh. You’re cold.”

No wonder. He’s about half my size. The cold must be chilling him to the bones. With shaky hands, he pulls the fuzzy wool beanie farther over his ears, looking up at me with a pout.

“Cold?”

I pantomime shivering for him. “You’re cold. I think. Your planet’s probably really warm, right? ‘Cause of the… y’know…”

He looks at me quizzically.

“Ah, never mind. Let’s get going. The forecast says it’s going to rain soon.”

Bug blinks and cocks his head. “Rainsoon?”

“No,” I chuckle. “Rain. It’s water, that, uh… falls. From the sky. You’ve seen that before, right?”

“Danger?”

I return my hand to his back and start to urge him onward, but his feet are planted firmly on the ground. He looks up at me with wide eyes.

“No, it’s not dangerous. We’ll just get wet. I’ve…never considered how ridiculous it would sound to someone who’s never seen it before. It doesn’t rain on, uh… Mee-zoo?”

“Yes, sometimes,” he mutters. “Not in city. Always perfect there.”

“It doesn’t rain in the city? What city?”

Not acknowledging my question, Bug continues, staring off in front of him at nothing. “Must be perfect. Earth… not perfect.”

“Yeah. Yeah, far from it.”

“I like Earth.”

I laugh. A cool breeze picks up again, and the first raindrop falls a moment later—lands straight on the tip of my nose. The soft pattern of light rain on store canopies fills the silence of the night soon enough.

Bug allows me to nudge him forward now, and we fall in beside each other again.

The streetlights reflect off his eyes, and they sparkle like stars. It contrasts strangely against the rest of his dimly lit face, with constellations in his irises and shadows on the rest of his features. Even as we travel into new and unseen territory, he still manages to carry a bit of his home with him. I wonder if he knows that the galaxy resides in the amber pools of his eyes.

I glance around the fortunately empty street. Despite his disguise, Bug sticks out like a sore thumb. The old aviator sunglasses keep sliding down his face and I have to remind him to push them up every couple of minutes.

He and I are both magnificently uncomfortable. From its place in between Bug’s top set of shoulder blades, my hand grows sweaty. But the supermarket is only a few blocks away.

The walk sign turns to white, and with a gentle push, Bug and I make our way across the crosswalk, two steps for my every one. His eyes, peeking out from over the top of slipping sunglasses, grow dark again, as if they were reflectors on a bicycle, when we step out of the glow of the streetlight.

His shoulders tense before the headlights of the vehicle even come into view. Only when the minivan turns off the street a couple blocks ahead and the rumbling of its engine becomes distant does he ease.

I don’t notice that I am tense too until I relax.

“It’s just a car,” I say, unsure of who I’m assuring. He looks up at me, and I notice the stars in his eyes have shifted.

He opens and closes his mouth a couple times before spitting out a squeaky, “…Car?”

“Yeah. It’s like…a spaceship, but on land. And not from space. Nothing to be afraid of. Unless the person inside is a kidnapper. Or… has a gun. But that’s very unlikely. We’re in the good part of town right now. Very harmless. Unless you step in front of it. A car, I mean. They can hurt you if you step in front of them.”

Bug blinks.

“Sorry. I ramble when I’m anxious.”

“Commander Yomen,” he whimpers, looking over his shoulder. His breathing becomes heavy and labored. “Looking for me. Danger.”

“Looking for you…? Your commander?”

He nods, a hitch in his breath. He looks at me dead in the eyes, his sunglasses sliding down his face so that his wild, terrified expression is expose. Secretively, as if there were someone nearby that could be eavesdropping, he says, “I escaped. He looking for me.”

“Escaped? What are you—?”

“Danger,” he gasps, picking at the band on his arm. “Danger.”

“Hey, hey, okay.” I grab his hands, pulling them towards me so that he can’t hurt himself. “You’re okay. I won’t let anyone hurt you.”

Bug stares at me for what feels like a minute, mouth open and brows furrowed, frozen in his spot. Then he rips his hands out of mine, stumbling away, a look of disgust washing over his face. His expression shifts to confusion, then anger, then nothing. He stares blankly ahead, silence overtaking him.

He looks like a soldier.

The rain’s pitter-patter on the canopy above us is calming.

“It’s okay, Bug.”

“Didn’t… didn’t want…”

He doesn’t continue. We just keep walking, him taking two steps for my every one. Any attempts at conversation afterwards are met with silence.

By the time we leave the corner store, there are puddles on the ground. The drizzle must have picked up while we were inside; there’s no way we’re going to get home without getting soaked. I let out a loud sigh.

“And I didn’t bring an umbrella. Shit. We’re going to have to move quickly.”

After a moment, he asks, “Why?”

“Oh, uh. It’s wet. And it’s cold. You could get sick. Can… you get sick?”

“Sick?”

“Never mind.”

“Is okay,” Bug says, tugging on my sleeve. “I want… to go out.”

I blink. “You want to go outside? In the rain?”

He nods. “I want to feel it.”

The bell above the door rings when we leave. The cold air stings my face, and if it weren’t for the look on Bug’s starry-eyed face I would have turned around and gone back inside. The fluorescent lights from the store window illuminate his irises. Wonder paints his face as heavy raindrops fall on it, a smile pulling at the edges of his mouth ever-so-slowly. He allows the glasses to slip all the way off his face and fall into a puddle near his feet.

He sticks a small, gloveless hand out and collects rainwater in his palm.

And then he starts crying.

It starts with a sniff and then devolves into sobs that wrack his tiny frame. I watch him go from nothing to anger to confusion to grief to, finally, unbridled joy in a span of about three seconds. With one hand gripping mine and the other three holding puddles of rainwater, the alien cries his eyes out with the biggest and toothiest smile.

“I like Earth,” he hiccups, looking at me as the tears spill down his cheeks. “I like Earth.”

I’m at a loss for words for a long moment before crouching down and enveloping him in a tight embrace, which only makes him cry harder.

“Bug,” I say gently, allowing him to pull away. “What’s the matter? Why are you crying?”

“No rain in Hmyzu.”

“Yes, but—… Why are you…?”

“Can’t rain in Hmyzu.”

“What—?”

It clicks, and the realization washes over me like a wave. He’s been trying so hard to be perfect the way his commanders wanted him to, but… he’s just like me. He’s just like Earth. He isn’t perfect, he can’t be. After years on his home planet being forced to act a certain way, to be able to feel the rain on his skin and cry without the pressure to be a perfect soldier is…like a dream to him.

I just wish he knew the words to tell me everything that he’s feeling.

I’m starting to realize that Bug and I aren’t that different. Not being able to live up to the expectations of our societies, feeling like aliens on our own planets.

We were both alone, hopeless, too different for our own good.

And somehow, miraculously, he ended up here with me. We ended up together, whether by fate or by chance, two black sheep from two totally different pastures, here, right now, on this street corner, soaked by the rain and the little alien’s thick tears. We don’t have to belong on Earth or Hmyzu—we can just belong together.

“I like Earth,” Bug says again, burrowing his face into my coat. “Thank you.”

“Thank me? For what?”

Again, he doesn’t continue. The night is silence. Nothing but the soft sniffles of a crying alien, the pattering of rain, and the buzzing of neon signs and dim streetlights resounds off the brick walls of the shops lining the block, and with the weight of four arms wrapped around me, I have nothing to worry about.

“Let’s go. It’s cold out.”

I pull him to his feet and wipe the tears off of his already-wet face. He smiles crookedly at me, starts twinkling in his eyes.

We make our way home, walking through puddles and enjoying the gentle pitter-patter of rain on metal roofs and canopies, stepping in time with one another.

With him here, I think I’m starting to like Earth a little too.


	7. rory // yellow

Winter overstayed its welcome this year. The cold lingered while I waited for the flowers to bloom and for the warm colors of spring to blossom outside my window. When I should have been turning off my heat and shedding my winter layers in anticipation for the warmer days to come, it continued to stubbornly chill me to my core. With each icy night that passes I long more and more to feel the sun’s rays on my skin.

I’ve known nothing but the recycled air and the buzzing of fluorescent lights in a dusty basement for many springs now. Sitting outside now, the chill bites my skin, and I pray the winter’s loitering isn’t a sign I should have stayed inside today.

Pulling my winter coat tighter around me, I take a deep breath in, let it out, and watch the puff of hot air disappear with the wind.

Knitting needles and two balls of yarn--one loosely wrapped and worn, one tightly wound and much bigger than the other--lay on the concrete porch beside me, momentarily untouched. I take a moment before I start to knit to take in the fresh air and the view of the frosted tree branches that provide a canopy over my backyard, a sight I’ve only seen from the other side of a window screen and a panel of plexiglass for years.

I almost expected the view to be more magnificent. Instead, my eyes are met with the dull hues that come with winter--drabby gray branches, drabby gray frost on drabby gray grass. How could I take any inspiration from a view like this?

The only color in my sights resides in the dense ball of yellow yarn sitting to my right.

“Do you ever knit anything with color?” Daphne had asked me a couple nights ago, wrapping a gray scarf around her neck, tracing the chevron pattern of lighter and darker shades with her fingertips.

Turning my gaze downwards, I asked, “You don’t like it?”

The words were no more than a mumble. I caught myself kneading the fabric of my sweatpants with nervous thumbs and forefingers.

She looked up suddenly from her hands patting the garment. “Oh, no, of course I do. It’s lovely. You’re very talented, Rory.”

“Oh. Thank you.”

I stared at her hands. They’re dainty and gentle and even-toned, a perfect contrast to the fidgeting and shakiness and spotty patches of vitiligo that brand mine. Where the movements of her fingers are tender and deliberate, mine are fretful and unpredictable. My hands flap and twitch. Hers could glide smoothly over the soft yarn that makes up the gray scarf draped over her shoulders. How her hands and my hands were made by the same womb is a mystery to me.

All Daphne and I have in common is our genes and the color of our hair.

“You should pursue it,” she’d said, a polite smile on her roundish face. “Sell some scarves online or at farmers’ markets around town or something. Put yourself out there. Make a name for yourself.”

“Oh, no--I’m… I’m good. I’d rather just keep making them for you. Putting myself out there...isn’t really for me.”

“Yeah, I know.”

A period of silence passed. We both watched her hands, petting and picking at the yarn. The dim lighting emitted by the floor lamp casted her face in shadow.

I asked, “Are you mad at me?”

She smiled warmly and looked up. “No, I’m not mad. Just… thinking.”

“Oh.”

“You never answered me.”

“When?”

“I asked you if you ever knit anything with color. All of your scarves, are like.. black, white, and gray. Why not make something more colorful?”

“I’ve never thought about it, I guess. I’m fine with just black and white, I think. Would… Would you like it better if it were colorful?”

“It’s up to you,” she said, letting go of her scarf and turning to her purse sat on the rocking chair. “I like color, but if you don’t… that’s fine. But I just think a little splash of color would do you good.”

I noticed then how the gray contrasted with the bright, warm tones of the rest of her outfit. It looked almost out of place around her neck. I noticed how her bright face was complemented by the reds and oranges and yellows that make up her clothing. She’s always loved color. I didn’t care for it much--I like to knit, but she’s the artistic one--and she’s always said that’s a crime.

When she grew old enough to buy me presents herself, she made it her mission to buy me the most hideously colorful article of clothing she could. Last year, she got me a bright yellow and orange turtleneck sweater; it’s been hanging in the back of my closet ever since.

She tries incessantly to make me more like her--more like a people person, more like a bubbly and bright and colorful social butterfly that has his life together and goes to work and has good friends. Someone who puts himself out there, someone who talks to people, someone who can “feel the joys of everyday life.”

To be honest, I haven’t felt in a long time.

The palpitations that rise from panic, the warmth that spreads across your face from happiness, the tightness in your chest rooted in grief--I can only now describe them in writing. I’m convinced nowadays that these emotions were a figment of my imagination, a ruse, an elaborate prank that everyone is in on except for me.

I grew up wishing that I didn’t have feelings, believing that torture came in the form of emotions, good or bad, oblivious to the torture that comes with being riddled with apathy.

I’ve been told it’s strange that I had been stripped of feelings, that there’s no way I could have just lost the ability to feel, that any normal human would eventually explode if they bottled up their emotions for too long. Not that I disagree, but I wish I could just stop hearing it.

Daphne says she’s worried I’ll have some kind of breakdown someday. She insists that humans need to be able to express themselves to survive.

I don’t know how to tell her that I feel less and less like a human every day.

After a while, I stopped going to work, I stopped talking to people, I stopped pretending to be a normal human, because if a facade is all I am, then why should I continue to wear the mask? I knew there was no way that I was meant to belong on Earth among people that are so unlike me, and I was tired of pretending to fit in.

Daphne says I’m selfish, but I’d rather be selfish than an alien in a human’s shoes.

Despite it all, sometimes I’m jealous of her. She doesn’t have to think about being human--she just is one. She was able to walk out of the door of my basement that day without a second thought about it. Why was she blessed with that gift? Why am I the one that had to struggle to be normal?

That’s just it, though-- _ had  _ to struggle.

In my basement, I’m normal. There’s no one here but me. No one to worry about acting weird around. No one to make me have to pretend. I’m just content with my bed and my TV and my black and white yarn and not forcing myself to wear any human mask. I don’t need to worry about winter in the basement, for the blizzards and chilling winds could only bother me outside.

“So, what do you say?” She broke me out of my thoughts, her hands on her hips. “You think you’ll let me get you some colored yarn?” Her smile raised her round, rosy cheekbones, looking at me with a friendliness that only she’d be able to muster in the presence of someone like me. It’s a smile I’ve only ever seen from her, and seeing it always makes me want to pull that yellow and orange turtleneck out of the closet.

My mouth shaped the word “no”, but instead, I swallowed and asked her, “What color?”

Her smile spread further, like butter on warm toast. “What colors do you like?”

“Uh…”

My eyes scanned the room, searching for a random color to satisfy her question. My bedsheets and walls and carpet and curtains are all different shades of gray, not unlike the drabby winter view that resided on the other side of my window--I rested my eyes on a never-burnt lemon drop candle on the nightstand. It was a gift from Daphne many birthdays ago, one I never bothered to throw out or tuck away.

“Yellow.”

“Yellow it is, then,” she said. “That’s my favorite. It symbolizes happiness and confidence, you know.”

“That’s fitting.”

She turned to me with one eyebrow raised. “Was that a joke? Are you makin’ jokes now?”

“And so what if I am?”

“I’d say it’s good to have you back,” she said with a small laugh. “One mention of yellow yarn and he’s already a changed man!”

“Ah, I don’t know about all that.”

She sighed out of her nose, smiling a tight-lipped smile. “I’ll see if I can find some and drop it off tomorrow, alright?”

“Alright.”

“Maybe you could do some knitting outside,” she offered, giving me that look that means  _ you’re going to listen to me because you have no choice in the matter.  _ “I think that’d be good for you. The fresh air will feel good.”

So, here I sit two days later, wrapped in a winter coat and an old quilt on my back porch, breathing in the chilly air of a persistent winter, casting on the beginning of a yellow scarf for Daphne. The fresh air doesn’t feel good like she said it would--it just feels cold and biting. It’s hard to move the needles swiftly with my chattering teeth and gloved fingers. There’s nothing good about any of these except for the gentle clinking of my knitting needles and the slowly growing yellow scarf.

The steady rhythm of knitting the simple garter stitches, watching the scarf grow longer ever so slightly with every new row, provides me with a sense of calm and peace.

Though, the bite of the cold and my shivering hands make it harder to find such peace the way I’d be able to in front of my space heater in my bedroom. I try to persist anyway, thinking back to Daphne’s smile every time I think of turning back.

A chill wracks my body and a loop slips off the needle.

I sigh. A plane’s engine roars annoyingly overhead. It grows louder and closer and more irritating as the seconds go by.

It doesn’t fade away, the sound droning and reverberating in my chilled bones.

I decide to go back inside.

It’s warmer there.


	8. cesen // choose

Kef holds himself like a soldier should. His scarred face slack, his shoulders taut. If he catches himself slouching, or if his face betrays his reserved air, he corrects it immediately. He is the perfect image or a perfect Hmyzic soldier, and he knows it. He carries himself with a guise of importance, of someone expected to be respected.

He's the talk of the Academy, the most famous trainee in Hmyzu's upcoming soldier lineup. Yomen himself has praised his courage and diligence. Why chose to ~~"befriend~~ ~~"~~ associate himself with someone like me is beyond my understanding. The nonpareil soldier of the Hmyzic Trainee Class and the poor excuse for a Hmyzic citizen, let alone a soldier. Two notorious figures known by many, each on different ends of the spectrum, yet... inseparable. We spend most of our time outside of training with one another--because we are running out of time to do so. As trainees, we never know when we will be sent out to the battlefield.

As a failure, I don't know when Yomen will finally decide to label me defective.

We understand our time is limited, so we spend it together, pretending that the other half of the world isn't there, that our Commanders aren't expecting us to be perfect, that we aren't destined to be separated and pit against one another. At least...that's what I do.

Even while relaxing, he has perfect posture. Oftentimes we go to the top of the hills outside of the Square. It overlooks the aeronautic training field. A hot, smoky-smelling breeze picks up when a ship takes off, and it you're lucky a pilot-in-training will spare a curt nod for the civilian onlookers. Kef likes to watch them, his half-lidded eyes fixed on the slender pilots doing drills, his back straight and shoulders tense.

I ask him if he has eyes on any of the pilots. He glances at me for a moment, then looks back.

"You know we can't engage in trivial matters like that. Code #47 states--"

"Yeah, I know. You're telling me you've never thought about it, though?"

"Of course I have," he counters, his antenna twitching, "but the mark of a good soldier is the ability to repress these feelings to honor the Codes."

I fall back against the grass. Kef's profile is silhouetted by the sun falling over the horizon, surrounding his body in a golden lining. His fur is blown by the gust of wind from a ship taking off. He is still.

"Do you ever wish you could have been raised as a worker instead?"

"Yes," he says, momentarily breaking his focus from the aerospace field. I blink, letting out a quick breath.

"Really?"

"Yes, but I have a duty as a Hmyzic soldier to follow orders and ensure I am fit to serve. Emotions are dangerous, Cesen. You can't allow them to cloud your judgement."

Shame claws at my chest, and my wrists start to burn. When my gaze turns upward again, he is facing away from me once more. His words reverberate in my mind, and his voice joins a chorus of droning Commanders and Generals and other loyal Hmyzics, chanting a mantra that repeats mechanically in the mind of every trainee in Hmyzu.

I am suddenly conscious of my slouching shoulders.

"Cesen," Kef mutters, almost as if he doesn't want anyone else to overhear. "You are one of the best Hmyzics I know. You should have never been assigned as a soldier."

My body tenses, expecting a shock. I force my frown and my spine to go straight. I mutter, "Oh."

"I worry about you. You're following a dangerous path, and I...fear for the future...of...of the army."

"The army?"

"Cesen, your emotional tendencies will present a danger to Hmyzu unless you can get them under control," Kef says, louder now, his face stern and cold. I can hear one of the aerospace Generals yelling. "People...people talk. About you."

"I know that," I retort. "I just...expected you to be different. To support me. But the Codes--and the--"

"Cesen," Kef says cautiously.

"We both know I'm not going to--"

The weight of my words constricts my throat and I feel the pressure of a hundred Hmyzic eyes on my back, burning holes through my flesh. Kef finally turns back to me. His eyes are a piece of glass, and I am an insect under the glow of a burning light. My breath is caught in my chest.

"Choose," I say, speaking before I could tell myself not to, my voice breathy and low. "Choose, Kef. Hmyzu or me?"

"That isn't fair."

"Then Yomen and I finally have something in common," I spat, feeling big. "Choose."

"Hmyzu," Kef says plainly, half-lidded eyes staring directly ahead. "I'd choose Hmyzu."

I blink.

Kef's face is casted in shadow, and I imagine his compassion resides there too. I wonder if there was a specific moment his emotions were locked away. Was that the work of his Mentor? Is Venn the reason I've fallen so far behind? Or was I just born...defective?

Does Kef even feel anything at all? Or are we supposed to be able to repress them, the way that he said?

My eyes well up, and I blink the wetness away. Why is this so _difficult?_

"Cesen," Kef says, bringing my mind back to the hill. "Can't we just enjoy our time here together? Watch the pilots."

So we sit, pretending that the tension isn't trying to asphyxiate me. Solitude is an illusion these days; Kef's eyes carry the weight of a thousand other judgemental stares.

"When do you think we'll be drafted?" I ask, stupidly.

"With luck," he says, "not for the rest of our lives."


	9. rory // winning

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> rory's a bit younger in this one. that's why there's more simple language.

Mom said I'm going to do school at home now. She told me that public school isn't that good for me, but it's okay because it isn't for everyone. I kind of wish it was. It gets lonely at home sometimes because Daphne still goes to school.

It's not all bad, I guess. Spencer still comes to my house sometimes, and Mom has been teaching me how to knit. We do it between classes, and I think it's really fun. It makes me feel calm. I like the way the needles clink together, and the yarn Mom buys is really soft. I made a scarf the first time. It's yellow and blue, and it goes with my favorite pair of shoes.

I'm knitting one for Spencer, now. It's green. That's their favorite color. Or I think it is--all of their alien drawings are in green, and they wear a lot of green, so I just figured. I hope they like it.

-

I can't wear my scarf anymore.

Spencer and I were riding our bikes to the store when it happened. We were stopped by Garrett--one of the mean kids from my old school--and his friends, and they told us to get off our bikes.

As I was climbing off, Spencer said, "Get out of the way, Garrett."

Garrett scoffed and approached me. "Where have you been, Rory?"

"I'm doing homeschool now."

"Why, you too dumb for regular school?"

Spencer got off their bike, balling their fists by their sides. "Get out of the way."

"Where'd you get that scarf, Rory?"

Garrett's friends snickered. Spencer glared.

"You made it?"

"Garrett," Spencer growled. "Leave us alone."

Ignoring Spencer, Garrett grabbed the end of my scarf and tugged on it, making me fall forward.

"Stop it, Garrett!"

"And what are you going to do about it, faggot?" Garrett spun around and spat. "Huh?"

Spencer swung their fist around and connected it with the side of Garrett's face. They both let out a yell as Garrett shoved him away. The world slowed to a blur as the two of them fought. I caught a glimpse of Spencer's wild-eyed face, blood dripping from their eyebrow, before one of Garrett's friends pushed me down and pulled on the ends of my scarf till it choked me.

"I didn't--do anything--" I coughed.

Spots entered my vision before a man started yelling and Garrett and his friends scurried off. I let in a gasp of air and ripped the scarf off my neck.

The man asked, "Are you boys okay?"

Spencer said, "We're fine," before reaching out a hand to let me up. Their face was angry, but their eyes calm, as they brought their hand towards me. They had a gash on their eyebrow and blood dripping from their nose.

"Spencer, I..."

"Are you alright?"

I thought for a moment. "No."

I didn't realize I'd started crying until I saw Spencer's face was blurry. I let in deep, hiccuping breaths and wiped the tears off my face. 

They wiped their lip, which smudged the blood across their face. "Don't listen to anything they say. That's how they win, you know."

"Right." I stood up and grabbed my bike and turned towards Spencer. "What does faggot mean?"

"I don't know."

We didn't go to the store. We just picked up our bikes and headed home. Afterwards, I threw my scarf into the closet and put the green ball of yarn in with it.


	10. cesen // code 27

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> LAS = life and action support  
> it kind of serves the same function as zim's PAK, but... not actually

There was a march on the capitol recently, and everyone I know is talking about it. The Commanders are outraged. An underground clan of pro-Omeri Hmyzics protested in the Square. They were just standing there and yelling. Some of them had signs. Officers came by and took most of them out--tied them up and stuck something in their LAS. The ones that tried to fight back were shot between the eyes. Some escaped--I watched them scurry into the back alleys and empty buildings. Bodies littered the Square. They dragged the unconscious ones away and left the dead ones there until that night.

I saw some of it. I went to my bunk later and cried into my balled up uniform. Kef came back after I was done, but he didn't say anything.

* * *

It's cold. Colder than most days in the training field. Groups of young Hmyzic trainees stand in a line, evenly spread, posed with straight backs and tensed shoulders. I'd been hit over the head for shivering.

We're performing drills in the field, preparing ourselves to fight in the war. I'm chilled to my bones.

Yagi's whistle squeals. "Sprints!"

We run. Down the field and back again. And again. We move as a single unit, stepping in time, down to the pumping of our arms. We know that if someone falls behind, they stay behind. We _know,_ but--

Kef trips. 

I hear him cry out and stop before I can tell myself not to. The other trainees push past me, knocking me side to side with their strong shoulders. I don't know what comes over me, but I don't think. I turn on my heels and run back, pushing through the rest of my classmates. I crouch to help him up, and an expression of horror flashes across his face before a boot comes in contact with the back of my head.

When I come to, head pounding, the stern face of my General, stern and expressionless, replaced Kef's. She towers over me, the uninterested faces of the others forming a cage around my body.

"Never turn your back on your fleet," Yagi commands, gripping my collar and pulling me up towards her.

"But Kef fell--"

" _Never_ turn your back on your fleet."

"If I left him behind, then I'd be turning my back on him, sir."

Yagi's hand grips my neck trapping my airway in a solid hold. I kick my feet and grab at her fist, but she is unrelenting.

"Are you defying me, Cesen?"

I wheeze in response.

Kef and I lock eyes for a moment. His face does not show any signs of pain. He looks away, eyes downturned.

"Code 27: Do not allow your morals to interfere with your mission," Yagi spits. My lungs scream for air. She drops me on the ground, leaving me to choke and sputter in the dirt. "Kef, do you approve of your fellow trainee's actions?"

He hesitates. I _hope_ , at least, that he hesitates. "Absolutely not, sir. The Codes come before all else."

"Good. Thank you, Kef."

The other trainees step away, and I'm alone. 


End file.
